My fingertips

I cannot see anything through the frosted glass, So I creep up to the window, more silent than the night-time wind, And open the heavy frame. Gray paint chips flake onto my chapped fingertips. I manage to open it just enough to feel the BLOW. The bitter, frozen air seeping through the barely open window Instantly attacks me. Chokes me. I shut it as quickly as I can And it finally removes its grip around my neck. But left behind are the marks of its fingertips. I am upright for a moment more before I collapse. The weight of my burdens baring down on me, I fall to my knees. But even they are too weak, Too raw from the daily collapsing and crawling In search for a better life. So I balance myself on my fingertips. I hear my baby brother Stirring in his bed. The fingertips of the wind are tapping at his window now, Pleading for another opportunity to enter. But no. I am too close. I am too fast. I get to my brother before the bitter call of the night. I sit beside him Stroking him, Caressing him With my fingertips.